


The Interview

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Burglar Dave, Burglary, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humorous Ending, Journalism, Journalist Karkat, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, humanstuck AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: Karkat is a journalist who has been following the case of the Houston Record Thief for six years to the point of obsession. When the burglar emails him to offer an interview, what is going to be the culmination of years of research turns out to be more than it seems.





	The Interview

“You’ve got an interview with Dave Strider tomorrow,” the radio host quips excitedly, “you must be thrilled.”

I sit back in the chair, adjusting my headphones.

“Yeah, I am,” I reply.

“It’s sudden, if I’m correct? You don’t live here in Houston, after all.”

“ _Very_ sudden,” I answer while making a displeased face, before adding, “I spent four hundred dollars on that flight – just out of the blue. He emailed me yesterday and said, ‘would you like to meet’, and the next thing I knew I was on a plane.”

“And you’ve been researching Mr. Strider for over five years,” she looks at me expectantly, raising her eyebrow. Her voice has a lot more gusto than her appearance.

“Yes. It’s been … a journey.”

“Would you call it obsession?” she asks, and I freeze, before letting out an awkward laugh to dismiss the silence. God, I hate radio interviews.

“… Yes, I guess I would. I mean, it feels like I almost know him personally, even though we’ve never met. After I finished the article on him, I called my girlfriend and I told her I was done, but I’d come across another report from a police station in Kansas, and then another, and then it was turning into a book. She broke up with me,” the joke at the end falls flat, though it _was_ pathetic – and true. The host still laughs, though, shaking her head.

“Well, you heard it first here at 64.8 FM The Buzz, folks. Karkat Vantas is writing a book – and meeting with Strider himself tomorrow. It’s gonna be the _In Cold Blood_ of burglary,” she exclaims, “back to another two-hour stream of Elvis, commercial free! Stay tuned after these messages.”

After shaking my hand, the host ushers me out of the studio. I quickly find myself outside in the blaring sun, covering my phone with my hand to see the time. It’s half past five at night, and I have less than twenty-four hours until I meet with Dave Strider.

I’ve been writing about Strider for the past six years; researching his life, talking to the people that know him, or even know of him. As a journalist for a small Washington Newspaper, I don’t often get exciting stories, and this certainly wasn’t one. Six years ago, I had to cover an unimportant story on this man called the Houston Record Thief, who was nothing more than a burglar who stole records from minor museums. In the long run, it didn’t mean much next to mass shootings or hardcore politics. That burglar was Dave Strider, and that article sent me into a spiral I couldn’t escape.

It started with simple research, and got deeper. I was suddenly elbow deep in police reports. Strider wasn’t just stealing from Houston Museums, but from museums all over the country. Still, no one else took notice except the local police stations on the museums themselves; most were small, private places or not even museums at all – pawn shops, auction warehouses were included in the running as well.

It turned into an ordeal. Like the host suggested, I became a sort of Truman Capote for this minor case, and what was several articles that stopped getting published by the newspaper I worked for turned into a book. I’d emailed and interviewed dozens of people – from self-proclaimed friends of Strider to the people who worked at the museums and police stations that he evaded. Everyone but Strider himself – I knew everything except the true reason why he’d done it. Some of the records were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and others were worth nothing.

He was careless but so intelligent, and I was fascinated by him. It drove everyone I knew away, except my current roommate, John, who was absolutely fine with my obsession as long as I joined him for movie night on Fridays and paid my share of the rent.

Tomorrow was the day of the end of my journey. I’d interview Dave Strider – which would be the closing to my book – and then move on. After the whole tedious self-publishing process, of course.

Looking out the window of the taxi I was taking back to the hotel, I can’t help but think what would happen after this. Will my life be different? Will knowing why he took the records change me? Will confirmation of my years of psycho-analyzation of this man affect me that deeply? Or will I just go back to my cubicle and write another article, find something else to obsess over? Or … will I never get this feeling again? A sudden rush of panic floods my body, but I usher it away. This is what I’ve been waiting for, and there’s no turning back now.  

I walk into my hotel, shaking my leg on the whole elevator ride up to my room. I sit down on the bed, putting my head in my hands and taking a deep breath. I pull out my phone, the reminder of the meeting in the morning shining on my lock-screen. My brow furrows.

Strider is a criminal. That isn’t something I’ve thought about much. What if he attacks me. I shift, uncomfortable. I pull up Google, doing a quick search or two, and suddenly I’m calling a body-guard-for-hire.

His name is Equius, and he seems legitimate enough. He tells me that he’ll meet me in the hotel lobby two hours before Strider arrives, and that when he comes, he’ll stay ‘discreet’ in the hallway to make sure he goes unnoticed by my visitor. And, if I need help, I just need to ‘press a button and he’ll be right there’. I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t have many other options.

The night crawls by, and I can’t sleep. I find myself staring at the ceiling. The sky doesn’t darken, and an eerie, red light filters through the blinds and onto the dirty carpet of the hotel floor. I fall asleep somewhere between three and four in the morning, waking up at my alarm at five-forty-five to meet Equius.

I throw on my suit, which is wrinkled. While I’m brushing my teeth, I glance in the mirror and run a hand through my hair, trying to tame it to no avail. I forgot to bring a brush. There’s deep bags under my eyes, and a red spot forming on my chin. I shake my head, splashing my face with water, before heading downstairs to the lobby.

Equius is there, and he’s what I expected, somewhat. Well, for the price, it makes sense. He’s tall and appears incredibly strong, but has long greasy hair and smells like body odor. He’s wearing a dress shirt and slacks, but yellow sweat stains and creases make it seem very unprofessional. He hands me one of those ‘life-alert’ things that old people use to call the police, but the back has been ripped off and duct-taped back on. He tells me that it is re-programmed to notify his cell when I press the button. He beckons me to try it, and sure enough, when I push the button, his phone begins to ring.

I show him upstairs, and he stands in the stairwell, assuring me that he’ll come running if I need him – with a little too much excitement in his voice. I head back to the room and wait.

Waiting is the hardest part, I think. I’m so impatient. The two hours feels like a hundred years. I pace, check my phone, pace again. I brew three cups of coffee, finish them all. I eat half a bag of airplane peanuts half an hour before Strider’s arrival time, realizing I hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast.

When the time finally comes, he’s late. Ten minutes late.

He knocks on the door and my heart stops. I walk to the peep-hole, and sure enough, he’s standing outside. He’s a little different than I imagined him, though I’d seen pictures. He seems taller, thinner than I thought he’d be. He’s wearing the sunglasses he’s worn in every picture his ‘friends’ have shown me. I take a deep breath and open the door.

“Hey,” he says.

“… Hello,” I say, exhaling slowly, “Karkat Vantas. It’s my pleasure. Come in.”

He nods and follows me inside, closing the door behind him. He sits on the side of my poorly made bed, and I pull up the desk chair and my notes. I test out a pen on the page, and throw it away, testing another. It works. I take another deep breath and sit down.

“Woah, why are you so freaked out, dude?” Strider laughs, pulling up his legs to sit criss-cross. He puts his elbows on his knees.

“I’m just – I’m a journalist,” I bullshit an answer, grimacing, “we’re always freaked out.”

“Let’s just do this, then,” he says, shrugging, “get it over with or whatever.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. My heart is pounding. He raises a brow over his sunglasses. Right, questions. I look down at my paper. I can barely read it. My head is swimming.

“Why did you take the records?” I ask without thinking, skipping to the very last question, which is underlined. He looks a little surprised.

“Right to the chase, huh?” he laughs again. I’m suddenly feeling very light-headed. He untucks his legs and leans forward. “You okay, buddy? You look a little pale.”

I’m seeing stars. _I’m going to faint_ , I think, before my eyelids flutter and everything goes black.

When I open my eyes, Strider is looking down at me. I’m on my bed.

“You okay?” he asks, “you were out for like five minutes. If I didn’t know how to get a pulse I would’ve done CPR or some shit.”

I blink.

“… I’m fine,” I sit up, and everything spins.

“Watch it,” he steadies me with a hand on my back, “blood pressure.”

I shrug off his hand, rubbing my eyes. I can feel him grinning.

“I knew you liked me, but I didn’t think you’d _swoon_ ,” he jokes, standing up.

“I didn’t – “

“Look,” he stops, his back facing me, “I heard you on the radio. Obsessed, huh?”

“I was exaggerating,” I reply so fast I nearly cut him off. He turns back to me.

“Did you ever think about the dates?” he asks.

My brow furrows.

“What?”

“Of when I took the records.”

“I …” I trail off. I can’t think of the dates. Why did he bring up the dates? I don’t remember the dates.

“I took the first one before you wrote the first article, obviously,” he sits on the side of the bed, “and it was because my brother wanted it. I thought it would impress him,” he admits, before he continues, “the second record was after your article. I thought it was cool, I guess, that someone took notice.

Then … you kept going, and I don’t know, it was weird but actually really nice, somehow. So, I started driving further and further, getting bigger and bigger stuff. As in more valuable. And every once in a while, I’d nab one I just thought was cool, too. Just for the hell of it. You were obsessed with me, but … I guess I was obsessed with you, too. I read all the articles. I loved all your theories. My friends told me about your interviews with them.

I had a plan when I emailed you. I was going to tell you some elaborate story about how I’m some fucking sociopath who steals records to tell some kind of messed up narrative, because I … felt bad, I guess. You’re writing this whole book about me, and I wasn’t doing shit. I’m smart, sure, but I didn’t have some grand plan. I just … liked it. Your articles, I mean. Having some journalist always on my tail.”

I blink, the breath taken out of me. I don’t know how to respond.

“You’re not gonna faint again, are you?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned. He holds out his hands cautiously. I stay silent for a minute, unsure about whether to feel sad or pissed. He was leading me on this whole time because he liked the attention? I feel like my whole world is crashing down.

“… Look, I don’t want to disappoint you. It was just … love at first read, you know?”

I glance up.

“Love?” I scoff, “you don’t even know who I am.”

“Like you know who I am?” he retorts, crossing his arms.

I sigh.

He reaches down to the side of the bed, and I realize he’d dropped a backpack there earlier. I must’ve been so caught up in the moment that I didn’t notice. He pulls out a record.

“What’s that?” I ask, reaching for it. He pulls it just out of reach.

“I kind of know you, as well as I can. I’m no journalist,” he shrugs, smiling slyly, “maybe that’s why I’m so chill, since apparently you’re always mid-panic-attack.”

He drops the record into my lap. When I look down, I can’t help but laugh my ass off. It’s the official soundtrack of the 2005 Will Smith movie _Hitch_.

“You have one hell of a Spotify history,” he jokes.

“Thanks,” I finally choke out after I catch my breath from laughing, “thanks a lot. Where’d you nab this?”

“Some thrift-store. Still burgled, though,” he pulls up his sunglasses to wink at me.

“How kind of you.”

He takes a step closer, and I raise my eyebrows. He puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me into a kiss. When he pulls away, I’m too shocked with utter confusion to muster up a reply. He laughs, running his fingers through my hair.

“So, I know this was supposed to be an hour-long interview, but … d’you wanna do pizza or something?”

God. I hate my life.

“If you pay for the cab.”

Three years later, my self-published book actually hits the physical shelves. Like I planned, it finishes off with the interview I had with Dave – except, my pending title, _The Houston Record Thief, A Journalist’s Examination_ was thrown away for:  _Love at First Record, or How It Took Six Years of Burglary and Research for Me to Meet My Husband_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I wrote this on a whim for laughs and to practice focusing more on the impact of dialogue than vivid imagery. 
> 
> It was inspired by the tail end of a story I heard on the BBC World News Radio yesterday about a guy called Kirk Wallace Johnson who spent years researching a fishing-lure thief only to meet him for a surprise eight hour interview. It's an interesting story, though it doesn't quite end the same way as this fic, haha. 
> 
> Much Love,  
> mintboy


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